Poems of the Heart and Home Part 17

And the brook, to me alone, Hath a tender, grieving tone, That it had not yesterday.

Eloise! Eloise!

It is night on the seas, And the winds and the waters are sleeping; And the seat where we prayed, 'Neath our home's blessed shade, With the soft shadows over us creeping, Is here-just here; But I miss thee, dear!

And the drear night around me is sleeping.

O seat, where she prayed of yore, O seat, where she prays no more, I am kneeling alone to-night!

And the stern, unyielding grave Will restore not the gift I gave To its bosom yesternight.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

No martyr-blood hath ever flowed in vain!-- No patriot bled, that proved not freedom's gain!

Those tones, which despots heard with fear and dread From living lips, ring sterner from the dead; And he who dies, lives, oft, more truly so Than had he never felt the untimely blow.

And so with him thus, in an instant, hurled From earthly hopes and converse with the world.

Each trickling blood-drop shall, with sudden power Achieve the work of years in one short hour, And his faint death-sigh more strong arms unite In stern defence of Freedom and of Right, Than all he could have said by word or pen, In a whole life of threescore years and ten!

Dead! fell a.s.sa.s.sin! did you think him _dead_, When, with unmurmuring lips, he bowed his head, While round him bent pale, stricken-hearted men?

Never more grandly did he live than then!

Never that voice had such unmeasured power To fire men's souls, as in that solemn hour, When, on a startled world's affrighted ear, "_E'er so with tyrants!_" rang out wildly clear.

And the red bolt that pierced his quiv'ring brain Maddened a million hearts with burning pain!

Dead?--frenzied demon of the lash and whip, What time you let your dogs of ruin slip At his unguarded throat with raurd'rous cry, And pa.s.sion-howl of rage and agony?-- Nay:--in that deathful hour, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Men heard his voice who never heard before; And, pale with horror by his b.l.o.o.d.y clay, Vowed from that hour his mandate to obey,-- Nor rest till all your fiends of Crime and l.u.s.t, 'Neath Freedom's heel, lie weltering in the dust!

Dead? dead?--Nay!--'tis not thus that good men _die_!

Tis thus they win fame's immortality!

Thus does their every utt'rance grow sublime,-- A voice of power,--a watchword for all time!-- And the dead arm a mightier scepter sways, Than his, who, living, half a world obeys!

Sleep, uncorrupted Patriot! faithful one!

Friend of the friendless! Freedom's martyred son!

Henceforth no land shall call thee all its own,-- The World, Humanity, the bruised and lone,-- The oppressed and burdened ones of every clime Shall claim thee theirs, and bless thee thro' all time, And "_are, and shall be free!_" from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e Speed grandly on till serfdom is no more, And gentle brotherhood our sorrowing race Link man to man in warm and true embrace!

G.o.d'S BLESSINGS.

"For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou compa.s.s him as with a s.h.i.+eld."

Like the dew-drops that fall Through the chill, midnight hours, Unheeded by all, On the close-folded flowers,-- E'en so, on thy chosen, Grief stricken that bend, Thy tenderest blessings In silence descend.

Like the showers that moisten The tree's shrivelled root, And quicken its branches To flower and fruit, E'en thus, on thy people Descend from above, In richest abundance The showers of thy love

Like the glad light that never Our sad Earth forsakes, But, as day fadeth, ever In the star beam awakes, So certain and constant, So rich and unspent, Thy blessings unstinted From Heaven are sent.

Like the waters that fail not Their course to fulfil, Like the wind's tireless pinions That never are still, Like the day in its rising, The night in its fall, Thus constant thy blessing, Great Father of all!

THE SILENT MESSENGER

I sat beside a bed of pain, And all the m.u.f.fled hours were still; The breeze that bent the summer grain, Scarce sighed along the pine-clad hill; The pensive stars, the silvery moon Seemed sleeping in a sea of calm.

And all the leafy bowers of June Were steeped in midnight's dewy balm.

She seemed to sleep, for lull of pain Had calmed the fevered pulse a while, But, as I watched, she woke again, With wondering glance and eager smile.

The pale lips moved as if to speak, The thin hand trembled in my own, Then, with a sigh for words too weak, The eyelids closed, and she was gone.

Gone! gone!--but where, or how, or when?

I had not seen or form or face; Unmarked G.o.d's messenger had been Beside me in that sacred place-- No sound of footsteps as he came, No gleam of glory as he went, Swift as the lightning's arrowy flame, Still as the dew the flowers that bent.

Yet she had heard the coming feet, Had seen the glory of that face, And, with unuttered raptures sweet, Had sprung to welcome his embrace As the swift arrow leaves the string,-- As the glad lark ascends the sky;-- And 'neath that soft o'ershadowing wing, Swept past the radiant spheres on high.

O track of light! O car of flame!

The calm sky bears no trace of you; The tranquil orbs sleep on the same, In heaven's unclouded fields of blue; And yet, upon this placid clay, There lingers still that radiance blest,-- Sweet token that her untracked way Led up to bowers of heavenly rest!

UNDER THE SNOW

Over the mountains, under the snow Lieth a valley cold and low, 'Neath a white, immovable pall, Desolate, dreary, soulless all, And soundless, save when the wintry blast Sweeps with funeral music past.

Yet was that valley not always so, For I trod its summer-paths long ago; And I gathered flowers of fairest dyes Where now the snow-drift heaviest lies; And I drank from rills that, with murmurous song, Wandered in golden light along Through bowers, whose ever-fragrant air Was heavy with perfume of flowrets fair,-- Through cool, green meadows where, all day long, The wild bee droned his voluptuous song; While over all shone the eye of Love In the violet-tinted heavens above.

And through that valley ran veins of gold, And the rivers o'er beds of amber rolled;-- There were pearls in the white sands thickly sown, And rocks that diamond-crusted shone;-- All richest fruitage, all rarest flowers, All sweetest music of summer-bowers, All sounds the softest, all sights most fair, Made Earth a paradise everywhere.

Over the mountains, under the snow Lieth that valley cold and low; There came no slowly-consuming blight, But the snow swept silently down at night, And when the morning looked forth again, The seal of silence was on the plain; And fount and forest, and bower and stream, Were shrouded all from his pallid beam.

And there, deep-hidden under the snow, Is buried the wealth of the long-ago-- Pearls and diamonds, veins of gold, Priceless treasures of worth untold, Harps of wonderful sweetness stilled While yet the air was with music filled,-- Hands that stirred the resounding string To melodies such as the angels sing,-- Faces radiant with smile and tear That bent enraptured the strains to hear,-- And high, calm foreheads, and earnest eyes That came and went beneath sunset skies.

There they are lying under the snow, And the winds moan over them sad and low.

Pale, still faces that smile no more, Calm, dosed eyelids whose light is o'er, Silent lips that will never again, Move to music's entrancing strain, White hands folded o'er marble b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Each under the mantling snow-drift rests; And the wind their requiem sounds o'er and o'er, In the oft-repeated "no more--_no more_"

"No more--no more!" I shall ever hear That funeral dirge in its meanings drear, But I may not linger with faltering tread Anear my treasures--anear my dead.

On, through many a th.o.r.n.y maze, Up slippery rocks, and through tangled ways, Lieth my cloud-mantled path, afar From that buried vale where my treasures are.

But there bursts a light through the heavy gloom, From the sun-bright towers of my distant home; And fainter the wail of the sad "no more"

Is heard as slowly I near that sh.o.r.e; And sweet home-voices come soft and low, Half drowning that requiem's dirge-like flow.

I know it is Sorrow's baptism stern That hath given me thus for my home to yearn,-- That has quickened my ear to the tender call That down from the jasper heights doth fall,-- And lifted my soul from the songs of Earth To music of higher and holier birth, Turning the tide of a yearning love To the beautiful things that are found above;-- And I bless my Father, through blinding tears, For the chastening love of departed years,-- For hiding my idols so low--_so low_-- Over the mountains, under the snow.